CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Whitney
T he click of the door wakes me up, the squeak of tennis shoes on the floor telegraphs where he is in the condo, and the loud sigh makes me wonder if he hasn’t had a good practice.
What is he like after training? Exhausted? Surly? Standoffish?
Will this be about the time he realizes he doesn’t exactly want someone in his place when he just wants to come home and do nothing?
There’s a reason I made sure I was in my room when he returned. The last thing I want to do is invade his privacy any more than I already have. It’s damn hard though not to run out there—or more like walk slowly—and throw my arms around his neck and thank him for what he’s done. What he’s doing.
So instead I wait and wonder if I’ll get the chance to thank him tonight or if it’ll have to wait for tomorrow. I hope it’s the former and not the latter.
I track his progress with sound.
The drop of a bag.
The clink of keys on the counter.
The opening and shutting of the refrigerator door.
Then the gentle knock on my door. “Whit? You up?”
So many emotions that I don’t think I could name them all surge through me. The desire to see him almost urgent.
“I am. Come in.”
He pushes open the door, and my stomach flips at the sight of him. He’s freshly showered, a pair of gray sweats hang low on his hips, and his hair is a tousled mess of wet waves.
Holy hell.
Desire shouldn’t be allowed when you’re recovering from surgery, and yet there is no other word to describe what I feel seeing him.
“Wow. You look”—he looks me up and down—“so much better. You finally have some color to your cheeks, and your eyes look clearer.”
It’s the simplest of praise, but like a teenage girl, I bask in it. “I feel better. I ... how was practice?”
“Good. Typical. Worked on a new formation that I’m not too sure about. I’d like to get your thoughts later on it.”
“Me?” I laugh out the word while being silently stunned. He wants my advice on soccer? Like ... seriously?
“Yes. You . You know your shit, and I value your opinion,” he states without hesitation as he moves into the room. Without asking, he kicks off his shoes and then climbs into bed beside me. He’s on top of the covers, his back propped up against the pillows and headboard much like I am.
“But practice was good otherwise?”
“Mmm.” He shrugs. “Gallo is annoying the fuck out of everyone, but then again, that’s what he does. You know how keepers are—there’s always something a little off about them.”
“That’s definitely true.” I laugh. “But you’re both why Mayhem is looking stronger and stronger with each game to win the championship so it’s not like you can play without him.”
“True.”
“Look, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if all the outside noise and time you’ve spent at the academy is affecting you. Then the added time spent with me at the hospital.”
“First, what did I tell you? Stop apologizing.”
I flash a grin his way. “Actually, you told me to stop thanking you so I’m allowed to apologize.”
He laughs and shakes his head before leaning over and pressing a kiss to my forehead. But he goes on talking and I simply stare at him and see how natural that show of affection was for him.
And how easy it was for me to accept it .
“True,” he muses. “I’m not going to lie. It’s been interesting trying to figure out the time management and dynamics of it all. Putting the right amount of time where it needs to be without reworking the guys’ schedules and pissing them off too much. But it wasn’t until I was at your academy that I realized how much I’d lost touch with the reasons I fell in love with the game to begin with.”
“Like how?” I ask, but I already know the answers. I know because I get the privilege of seeing them every day.
“A chance to get out of the house and lose yourself in something bigger than you are. The excitement of game day. The bets on who was going to have the dirtiest kit by the end of the day. Oh, and orange slices.”
“Orange slices?” I burst out laughing.
“Yes. Nothing says a proper game of recreational footie than a bag of warm orange slices after the game that have been sitting in the sun provided by the team mum.”
“Oh my God. That’s so true.”
“It was the best.” His smile is nostalgic. “My mum would sit on the sidelines, and my dad would coach. After the match, we’d go out to dinner to celebrate. Then it all changed when he died, but these past few weeks have reminded me of those times with him. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here today.”
“I’m sorry you lost him,” I say.
He draws in a breath and shakes his head. I reach over, put my hand on his, and squeeze. We both still because an outward show of affection is so rare for me but I appreciate that he doesn’t say anything but rather just laces our fingers together and settles into the silence with me.
“It changed the direction of my life for sure. Losing a parent always does, as I’m sure you know.”
“Hmm,” I say as he runs his thumb back and forth over the top of my hand. “Now I know this isn’t allowed, but I have to thank you again.”
“No,” he mock groans and lets his head fall back on the pillow, but then I poke at his ribs until he starts laughing.
His immediate reaction is to reach for me, to reciprocate, but then stops when he realizes he can’t.
“Ah-ha,” I say with a lift of one eyebrow. “For once I have the upper hand when it comes to you.”
“It seems you’ve had it since day one,” he murmurs, his words so raw and honest that my breath hitches. That damn flutter takes flight again.
I clear my throat. It’s not like that’s going to slow down my pulse any, but I do it again. “I-uh-I wanted to thank you in regard to the club. About stepping up to help me while I’ve been ... sick. You could have just done the bare minimum but instead, you went above and beyond. You brought guys from your team to help. You’re helping. The whole world knows about it. I mean ... you really did that all for me ?”
His smile is soft and boyish and my heart goes thud at the sight of it.
“Ah, social media strikes again. It’s the least I could do to help. I figured the more people there, the less people pushing you to come back before you were ready to.” He squeezes my hand. “I know you’re too proud to accept more donations from me, so I figured the best way to help would be to draw more people to the academy. How did I do that? More star power. We’ve had a lot of sign-ups for camps and for the year. Even had some coaches come forward wanting to donate their time to help.”
We’ve had a lot of sign-ups . We . Not you . The fact that he’s including himself in that comment says a lot and only serves to reinforce everything Suri and I spoke about earlier.
He is one of the good ones.
“I appreciate it—you—more than you know. I better up my game and figure out how to keep all these kids and parents happy when you all go back to your day jobs.”
He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. I’m startled and stunned by the simple intimacy of the action, by the normalcy of it, and by how much I want to lean into it and him even when I’m not feeling the best.
“Why do you think so little of me?” he asks as he leans back to meet my eyes.
“What?”
“Do you think I’d do all this with the guys to set you up to fail?” He smirks. “I have it all planned out. A schedule—surprising from me, I know, but it’s true.”
“You, Mr. Fly by the seat of your pants?”
“Yes. I know, but I do, in fact, have a schedule. Two team members will be there one time a week through the rest of the year.”
There’s no way he just said that. “What do you mean?”
“I’m pretty proud of myself for this one. Retention is key, right? Having the parents who can pay be happy with what they are paying for and the ones who can’t, feel like their kids are getting a special experience. So Martin and I worked through some ideas on how to do it, decided on one, and then I got the guys, my teammates, to commit to being there. If we all split it up and share the rest of the year, it’s not much at all.”
“Hardy? You’re actually serious.”
“I never joke about football,” he says and winks. “Ever.”
As if he hasn’t already knocked it out of the park, then he goes and thinks of my business how I would. How to sustain the growth. How to keep people happy. How to keep the money coming in.
I study him and shake my head. “There is so much more to you than you let people see, Alexander Hardy. You should let them see more of you.”
He rolls his eyes and nudges me with his shoulder. “The more you let people see, the more they have to use against you.”
“I don’t buy that.” I shift to face him, crossing my legs as I do. “Tell me something about you.”
“I hate peas,” he deadpans.
“Oh whatever.” I go to hit him with the pillow and realize my mistake as my muscles pull, and I wince.
“Whit? You okay?”
“Yes. Fine. But I’m serious. Tell me something more about you. Something real. I look around this penthouse, and it’s gorgeous, but I don’t see you .”
His sigh is heavy, and I wait for a smart-ass answer so I’m shocked when he actually gives me something. And it’s a doozie.
“I was nine years old when a drunk driver hit my dad. That’s the last time I was in a hospital before this week. Before you.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Don’t be sorry. It was a long time ago, and it is what it is.” He looks down to where his fingertip is tracing the stripes on my pajama pants. “My mum remarried some rich guy who loved the idea of her and hated the thought of there being a me. So I was sent off to boarding school—silver spoon and all.”
“Hardy.” Compassion is woven into every ounce of my tone. To lose your dad and then your mom.
He shrugs. “It’s been a battle my whole life—my whole career really. People assume that a silver spoon was all I needed to get where I am today—that and a little talent. What they don’t realize is everything I lost and had to give up in order to get it. Was it a fair trade? I don’t know, you tell me? But it sucked being eleven years old and on my own in a sense while still grieving the loss of my father.”
“Jesus,” I mutter as my head swims with the unexpected cruelty of that statement. I had a mom who chose drugs over me. He had a mom who chose money and social standing over him.
I’m not sure which one is worse.
Actually, I know which one is. Addiction makes you lose your ability to choose. Money makes you believe there actually is a choice in the first place.
“You can be rich in a lot of things—and I am way more than many—but if your mum chooses that wealth over you, then the silver spoon and the privileges it gave you hold a soured weight. And that weight helps form who you are. It...kind of forms who you become.”
“I don’t even know what to say other than I understand what it’s like to lose a mom in a sense.”
“Nothing needs to be said.”
“Is she still in your life?”
He emits a self-deprecating chuckle and rests his head back against the headboard, eyes toward the ceiling. “She shouldn’t be. I should have cut her off long ago and see if that fixes the unresolved shit for me. You know, the crap you refuse to acknowledge most days until it’s thrown in your face one way or another, and you can’t avoid it?”
“Boy, do I know it.” And there’s something so right about having a shared commonality with someone over something that no one else can understand or process that makes me more willing to open up to him.
He sighs. “Right or wrong, it’s like I keep holding on to the hope that she’s going to wake up one day and see what she’s done. That she’s going to come to her senses and apologize for abandoning me after my dad died. Sure it would have been tough for us with one income, but that wouldn’t have mattered.”
She still loves you . I stop myself from uttering the words on my tongue, the same ones that feel like a reflexive response that I hate when other people say to me. Instead I just nod. It’s all I can do.
“It’s a catch-22 though because would I be where I am today without it? Probably not. All that money did net me more chances so ... I don’t fucking know.” He scrubs a hand over his face and shakes his head as he looks out the window to the city below. “Makes me sound like a prat. I know—”
“Not at all. Hardy—”
“Your turn. Tell me something about you growing up.” Clearly the Alexander Hardy moment of vulnerability is over. It’s okay. I understand that more than he could ever know.
“You pretty much know the whole story considering the media has dug into my past, published my depressing tale, and decided to nickname me Orphan Annie.”
He angles his head to stare at me. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he pauses. “I told you I don’t read much of what the media puts out there. I only know what you told me, but I want more than that. Not the families you moved through or the loneliness—those are a given—but something that shaped you back then.”
“ Goodwill .” I have no idea where that came from but the memory is loud and clear and still gives a pang to my chest.
He slides a look my way like I’m crazy. “As in The Goodwill, the thrift store?”
I nod. The smile on my lips is more bittersweet than anything. “I was twelve, maybe thirteen. Somewhere in there. The Goodwill is where I used to have to shop for my clothes because my foster family...while they were nice and put a roof over my head, everything else was left up to me.”
“And a teenage girl likes to look and feel nice,” he says, understanding without me even having to explain.
“A teenage girl doesn’t want to be made fun of for wearing the same stuff over and over. It’s a stigma she can never wash away.”
“I can imagine.”
“We had a dance, and I wanted so desperately to be someone else, to wear something other than my usual stuff. I found this dress at The Goodwill. It was navy blue and beaded. I couldn’t believe my luck when it fit me. A whole fifteen dollars, and it was mine. I’d never felt prettier. My foster mom helped me with my hair and makeup, and it was ... I can remember exactly what I looked like and how pretty I felt.”
“I’m terrified to hear the rest.”
I nod. “I got to the dance, but how was I to know that the dress I’d found, the one that made me feel like a million bucks, was in fact, a one-of-a-kind dress that the prissy snob of the school’s mom had commissioned to be made for her the year before? She recognized it immediately.”
“Whitney.” It’s a groan.
“Yep. And she made sure everyone knew it too. I was humiliated. Mortified. And that’s when I got the nickname that stuck with me through high school graduation— Goodwill .”
“Bloody hell.”
“The shame that came with it still owns me most days.” I shrug. “I never went back there after that. I couldn’t.”
“I know you don’t want me to say it, but I’m sorry . The things that happen to us as teens really do form who you are.”
“They do.”
He yawns. It’s loud and bombastic, and he wiggles down the bed some so that he can prop his head on my shoulder. “Okay, next topic. Something better. Happier. Different.”
“Um ... you have a pretty killer view out there.”
“It’s not too bad. Did you watch practice?”
“I did.”
“Cool.” He yawns again. “It was close to the field and for sale. I was looking to buy something in the States. Easy. Done.”
“Yeah, but you need pieces of you here. It’s gorgeous, the furniture, the décor, the style, but there is nothing of you here.”
“My time here is almost up. What’s the point?”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him say out loud what I already knew. It’s a gut punch that I don’t want to process, especially when I’m just starting to come to grips with actually wanting something more with him.
“You’re heading back after the season.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but it’s one hundred percent a question in my head.
Our eyes meet. Hold. He nods subtly almost as if it’s an unspoken warning for the both of us, but I’d be blind if I didn’t see the emotion swimming in his eyes. What that emotion is—regret, desire, sadness—I just don’t know.
“Yeah,” he finally answers, his voice gruff.
“Well, you need stuff that’s you here.” I’ve gotten good at covering up emotion during my life. I do that right now. I pull my hand from his and fidget with my hair. “It’s a long time to be isolated.”
“That’s how I live. Too much to move back and forth.” He moves his face so his stubble tickles against the bare skin of my shoulder.
I falter. How can I tease myself with a glimpse of this feeling, this sensation, when I know it’s going to end? “You’re silently freaking out, aren’t you?”
“I just ... like I said, you need stuff here that’s you. That makes you happy.”
“I do have that. You’re here,” he murmurs before pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
Then we sit in silence and allow this new reality I’m beginning to think neither of us wanted or expected to sink in as a possible reality.
But there’s comfort in the silence I’ve never known before, a peace that comes with it.
And as I settle into the thought of it, a soft snore falls from his lips.